Guilty Cubicles
by Lynzee005
Summary: The documentary crew can't be expected to capture everything. In secret, stolen moments, Jim and Pam shared much more than we ever thought they did. This is what might have happened, between takes, on days off, and after the crews have gone home.
1. The Taste of Peanut Butter

_A/N:__** Spoiler Warning**__**s**_: Spoilers through to "Goodbye, Toby"... I don't know how detailed it will be, or if I'll make this more of an A/U type of story, but for right now I'm saying this just to be safe. 

_I also don't know about the title (it's the title of a beautiful instrumental song by Broken Social Scene). If you have any suggestions, please help me out; I'll give you full credit if I use it. _

___This chapter is from Jim's POV, right after the casino. Chapter title is a reference to the great, funny Charlie Brown quote: "Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love". I always picture Jim like Charlie but with nicer friends and more hair. And taller. Future chapters will be flashbacks. _

* * *

You see, the thing about Pam is that even without trying to you fall in love with her. She doesn't make it happen and I don't think we will it to happen. It just _happens_, and you can't help it. You'll walk in one day and it's _there_, suddenly, without warning. Or it will show itself at odd times, like when you know she's upset and you would do anything to make her smile, or erase the reason she's not. It goes beyond the call of duty in a normal friendship. It feels different. This love. And soon, it's burning, this fire that's ignited spontaneously within you, and it's consumed all your oxygen but it won't go out, not yet. It just keeps burning, without reason, without cause, without anything, even after you've told yourself a million times that it's crazy. Until you're left standing in front of her, used up and burned out, on a cool spring night and all you can see is the shimmering blue of her dress and all you can smell is her perfume, and you wonder if he even noticed how beautiful she was as he drove off without her. And you're waiting for her to say the words that would put you out, and she tells you she can't, and you have to walk away, out of respect for her and her decision but also for yourself. Because it's lunacy to be this masochistic.

Of course, I'm not talking about you anymore, am I? But I suppose you knew that already.

In my defense, I didn't know she was engaged when I fell for her. It wouldn't have mattered, anyway. She just said hello and shook my hand, and I was a goner. But I might have tried harder to give it up if her fiancé was a great guy; I probably would have stopped if her fiancé was just decent. But he wasn't even that. How could I let go knowing that she was going to pledge to love and honour a guy like Roy? You've seen the show – could you?

This is my life. I'm so tired, but I can't help it. I'm still burning. I can't carry a torch for Pam; I _am_ the torch. There's a difference.

She's the only thing that can put an end to this. But I can't make her do that.


	2. Cancelled?

Jim walked into the office and was surprised to see the documentary crew not hovering around anywhere. He shot a quizzical look at Pam.

"Where is everyone?"

"Oh, you mean the camera guys?" Pam's voice was low, "I don't know, some shakeup down at the station I guess."

"What happened?" Jim asked, hanging his coat on the hook beside Pam's desk and shoving his scarf down the sleeve.

"Um, not too sure. A new boss or something. He wants to rethink the station's direction, so they might cancel us. Until they decide, they're going to hold off on filming."

Jim couldn't help but feel elated at the prospect of coming to work every day and not being filmed. It had been far too long since that had happened. As much as he liked the crew, and despite the fact that some of them were good friends of his, he just wanted his space back. Most of the people he worked with felt the same way. His sales had been down since the crews had started filming – not that he really tried, or cared for that matter, but his wallet was feeling the difference the last year had made. Then there was the added stress of becoming something like local celebrities, fielding questions from fans wherever they went. Jim seemed to carry the brunt of the adoration, mostly from the under 30 female crowd, which was nice in the beginning but which had turned into a burden he wasn't sure he could handle.

It also hadn't been easy to fall more and more in love with Pam with prying, unfeeling eyes watching him all the time. And then to have to watch it unfold a second time on television a few weeks later. And _then_ to have to field questions about why he hadn't told her yet, from people at the market or restaurants or out at the video store. Lately Jim had been sending Mark to get anything he needed outside of the apartment; it was too much hassle having to tell people, again and again, just how not in love with Pam he was, knowing that every word was a lie, and that talking to strangers about it wasn't going to change the fact that she was getting married in a few months.

"Jim, this is Houston... do you copy?" Pam giggled, bringing him back to reality. "You look happy about it."

"Aren't you?" he asked.

"Sort of," she said as the phone began to ring, "Ask me again when they hand down a decision."

She picked up the receiver on the telephone and beamed at him, and Jim melted on the spot. He nodded, listening to the familiar "Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam" ring out as he walked to his desk and turned on his computer.

"Pathetic," Dwight said flatly as Jim sat down in his chair.

"What was that?"

Dwight turned his attention to Jim and lowered his voice. "The show's cancellation."

"Nobody said it was for sure."

"It might as well be," Dwight sighed, "And people were really starting to respond to my blog."

It was one time where Jim wished there was a camera around. He grinned in that lopsided way only he could pull off and cleared his throat. "Schrute Space?"

Dwight cast a glance at Jim and then looked back at his computer, "Yeah." There was a defensive edge to his voice.

"Well Dwight," Jim's fingers flew over the keyboard as he logged into his desktop, "If you have a fan base, then even without the show, I'm sure you'll do fine."

Dwight sneered, but Jim knew his bespectacled deskmate had appreciated the words; it wasn't always his intention to make Dwight feel good, but whenever it happened, even by accident, Jim felt his work was done.

But it wasn't, not by a long shot. His day had only just begun.


	3. Zombies Don't Hold Hands, Either

_Same day, hours later. Sorry for all the cliffhanger endings -- the first few chapters were all arranged as one large chapter until recently, when I decided to break them up, hence the small chapters with cliffy endings. I'll try and keep the suspense down from now on! :P_

* * *

The day had gone miserably slow. Jim had been busy, but it wasn't the good kind; it was busy on the phone and then busy doing paperwork and just when he thought he'd made a dent in the hours that ticked away on the clock behind him, he'd turn and look and find fifteen minutes elapsed instead. He'd hardly had a chance to get up from his desk, and on top of everything else, Michael had been called out for a meeting with the network and his own bosses to discuss the viability of keeping the documentary going, so Jim was acting number two for the day, something that greatly angered Dwight. Jim had taken to calling him "Assistant to the Acting Assistant Regional Manager", which only made it worse; the paper title card Pam and he had made up to say the same, which they pasted over Dwight's nameplate when he stepped out for lunch, had him going for an hour. It was the one ray of light he had managed to derive from his otherwise dull workday.

It had been especially bad when Roy came up after lunch to talk with Pam. They'd had a fight the night before – Valentine's Day of all days – because Pam had been expecting a gift even though she'd said she wasn't, and Roy had dropped the ball. He ended up taking her out for dinner to a pizza restaurant but was far too engrossed in some game on the television to actually pay attention to her, and Pam had been forced to drive Roy's truck home because he'd gotten drunk. Jim remembered Roy's comment as he and Pam had left the night before – something about giving Pam the best sex of her life as a gift; he didn't dare ask, but he assumed that the paltry offering hadn't delivered, if it had been sent in the first place, considering Roy's state by the end of dinner. This was, of course, Pam's version of events; but Jim had no reason to doubt it. He'd seen the way her eyes had flashed briefly when she started the story, right after Roy left to go back to the warehouse after lunch, apparently without resolving anything because Roy had slammed the door to the office on his way out, prompting yet another conduct citation from Toby, which Pam had felt compelled to apologize for. Pam had nothing to lie about, nothing to hide, not with Jim. He believed every word she said, and the fact that it wasn't an exaggeration made Jim's blood boil.

Sometimes, he just wanted to shake Pam and make her see everything through a different set of eyes; hers weren't working, quite clearly, or else she would have left Roy ages ago. Not that he would ever blame her. Not ever. Still, the minor blip on Jim's otherwise monotonous radar that day had come when he and Pam extended their lunch break by twenty minutes, an effort on Jim's part to help calm her down after her fight with Roy in the break room. It was the least he could do, but it was a depressing fact that consoling his best friend was the best part of his day.

Glancing at the clock, Jim sighed. Still an hour to go. He knew could make it, but he'd hoped – as he hoped every day – that somehow the spacetime continuum would bend in such a way as to render the workday… no, make it the work_week_… over before it had even begun. All of this would be an awful dream, and he'd wake up in his own bed on a Saturday morning happier than he'd ever been. Jim had been meaning to ask Dwight if that was even possible - he knew it wasn't - just to hear Dwight's over the top explanation for time travel. Before he'd had the chance to open his mouth, though, he noticed Pam looking at him, her eyes as lifeless as his. So he slowly let his own eyes glaze over before leaning his head forward until it hit the keyboard. Pam giggled and picked up the phone, and his desk phone began to ring.

"Can you un-die long enough to help me with this spreadsheet?" she said when he picked up, "I really don't know what I'm doing wrong."

"Undead, eh?" Jim asked. He grinned evilly as he lifted his head back up and hung up the phone, before standing and walking like a zombie over to Pam, who began giggled.

"Knock it off, Jim."

Jim gurgled something in response as he came around the side of the reception desk.

"Zombies can't talk," Dwight stated.

Jim broke character to roll his eyes, "Says who?"

"Says, like, every zombie film ever made."

"And you've seen every zombie film ever made?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." Dwight said.

"Well, witness the first speaking-role for a zombie in the history of zombies…," Jim resumed his stance, stiffening his arms and legs, as he approached Pam, who just continued to giggle, "I want to eat your flesh… ."

"That's Dracula," Dwight said.

Jim stood up, "Dracula wants to suck blood, not eat flesh."

"Not all zombies are flesh-eating. There are zombies with normal diets, too, in some places."

He lost all desire to continue pretending to be a zombie and just shoved his hands into his pockets. "Dwight, I don't even want to know how you know that," he replied, looking down at Pam, "So what's the deal with this spreadsheet?"

She smiled, totally amused by the conversation, and clicked her mouse to show him, so he knelt down to get a better view of the computer. But as he did, Jim became aware of how close he was to her. Her hair brushed his face, and he could feel how warm she was as his shoulder touched her arm. She was talking, but he didn't hear the words. _Not good, Halpert. Not good. _He shook his head, and as he adjusted his position on the floor to move away a little, his hand shot out for stability; but instead of landing on the desk or on the chair, he found himself grasping Pam's knee.

She looked down and her eyes widened in surprise. For a second, neither of them moved. Then Jim, stammering in embarrassment as his face flushed red, started to pull his hand off. But Pam, whose own hand was in her lap inches from his, moved to brush her little finger against Jim's, staying his hand against her leg. His breath caught in his throat and he didn't dare move or breath. Pam's nylons were coarse but warm against his palm, and he was suddenly aware of how much of his skin was touching hers. He closed his eyes, feeling the pads of his fingers begin to sweat as he pressed them into her pantyhose. Her little finger brushed along, up the back of his hand as far she could reach without moving her whole hand, until the second knuckle of his smallest finger. Her nail scraped lightly against the skin there as she curled her fingertip between his little and ring fingers, looping it around like a band, and so slowly that Jim was barely aware it was happening despite the fact that he was watching it with his own eyes. He had never noticed how small, how delicate, Pam's hands were. She had pale pink nail polish on, the kind that sparkles without being tacky, more like a mist or a pearl than sequins. Her skin was soft, fragranced by the satsuma hand cream from the Body Shop that someone had given her for Christmas, and which filled the office with its citrusy scent every time she applied it. He had come to love it, and thought of her whenever he ate an orange. As he breathed in, he felt Pam's finger tighten slightly around his; as he began to curl his own around hers, he was acutely aware of the door opening, and heavy footsteps on the carpet.


	4. Repercussions

"What the hell?! Pam!"

Her hand flew away from Jim's; Jim stood up, banging his knee on her rolling desk chair as he did, coming face to face with Roy as he rose.

"Roy, what are you doing up here?" Pam asked.

"What are _you _doing?" his eyes were wide with anger as he looked at the two of them.

"It's nothing," Jim stammered.

"Don't tell me it's nothing! What the hell are you doing sitting that close to my fiancée?!"

"Oh, now I'm not allowed to sit _close _to someone without you getting jealous?" Pam began.

"Don't start with me," Roy said, and Jim could see a vein in his neck start to throb. "Don't you dare start that guilt-trip bullshit with me."

"Well Roy, you're being ridiculous," Pam said, keeping her cool remarkably well despite the dozens of eyes on her. _Thank god the cameras aren't here… .  
_

"I don't want to talk about this here," he said flatly.

"Then let's talk in the hall," Pam said softly. She stood up, nearly knocking Jim over in the process. He looked at the ground, his hand on the back of his neck and his other hand – the one Pam's hand had kissed only moments before – shoved deep into his pants pocket.

Roy's eyes shot daggers at Jim before he looked back at Pam. "Fine. Let's go."

"Coming, coming," she whispered as she rounded the desk and joined Roy in the hallway. The door closed; Jim could see the outline and faint colour of Pam's purple cardigan as she pressed against the frosted glass of the wall beside the door. He waited a moment before going back to his desk. Everyone slowly got back to work.

Dwight leaned over after a minute had passed. "I would have had your back, Jim."

Jim rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger, "What are you talking about?"

"If Roy had started something," Dwight said. "I would have had your back."

Jim was touched but it wasn't the time for sentiment; still, his heart rate had begun to slow and he smiled meekly at Dwight. "Thanks."

Moments later, the door opened. Roy returned. "Hey Halpert."

Jim turned, "Yep?"

"Hey, I'm sorry for blowing up back there. It's just been a stressful day and… ."

"Yeah, no problem. It's fine. Don't worry."

"So… we're cool?"

"We're cool."

Roy smiled, and as he turned to walk out of the office, he bent to give Pam a kiss on the cheek; she stood there, arms folded across her chest as he kissed her. Ultimately, her eyes gave her away. She was seething. When he was sure Roy was gone, he started to get up to go to Pam, who was still standing there, when the door opened again. Fully expecting Roy to return, Jim scrambled to re-seat himself, but it was only Michael.

He walked in, pointing back at the door, "What's up Roy's ass?" he asked Pam, shrugging as she stalked around to her seat without answering. "Oh well, never mind. I've got good news! They're not cancelling us!" he exclaimed. When nobody seemed even remotely as excited as he was, Michael looked around, surveying the sombre expressions. "Okay, me no likey silent treatment." He laughed again, awkwardly, before raising his hands in frustration. "All right, seriously, who died?"

"Roy just about broke Jim," Kevin said from the back of the office.

Michael looked at Jim, his eyes widened in excitement, "I almost missed a fight?!"

Jim shook his head. "It's fine. It's nothing serious."

Disheartened, Michael shrugged. "Okay… well next time save it for when the cameras are around!"

"Which will be…?" Oscar asked, seemingly impatient.

"After the Olympics sometime," he stammered, "...or something... probably… I don't know. I brought goodies!" And then he began handing out bumper stickers and antenna figurines from the television station like a child with an attention span disorder hyped up on too much sugar.

The whole time, Jim never took his eyes off Pam. She had sat down now; her face was grim, her mouth firm and her eyes like steel, and her skin was still flushed red with embarassment and anger. But Jim could see that behind it all, Pam was dying to cry. She glanced at the clock, likely trying to find a way to bend time herself, then went back to work at the pace of a sloth, and nothing more was said.

An hour later, Jim pulled on his coat and gave a sideways smirk at Pam. "You found a ride?" Roy had left early, giving Pam the excuse that he needed to blow off some steam, leaving her to ask around for a ride. She hadn't asked Jim, but he hadn't offered, either.

"Yeah. My friend. She'll be here soon."

Jim nodded, "Okay then. Have a good night."

"You too, Jim."

He turned to walk out, reaching the door before his feet slowed their pace and crept forward like leaden weights before spinning him back around very suddenly. "Pam?"

"Yeah, Jim, what is it?"

"Um… I just…," he tapped his fingers against the desk. "I'm sorry. About earlier."

"Me too."

He paused. It wasn't what he wanted to hear -- what _did _he want to hear? -- but he nodded and looked down. "Yeah, it was… ."

"About Roy, I mean," she clarified quickly.

"Right. Roy." _Again with the apologizing, the defence… why are you always covering Roy's ass?_ He wanted to say it, but bit his tongue.

"He's a bit jumpy lately. Stress from the wedding, I guess."

_The guy's done nothing about the wedding. What can he possibly be stressed about? _"Right."

"But…," she continued, and Jim thought he saw her flexing her hand on her leg, above her knee. "I'm not… sorry. About… ."

For a moment, Jim felt a surge of hope. He didn't dare breathe, or look at her, out of fear that she would stop. He just closed his eyes and listened.

"Just…," she sighed, "Thank you."

He blinked, raising his eyes to look in hers, "I didn't do anything."

"Yes you did," she smiled. They held each other's gaze for a moment, and Jim couldn't remember a time when he'd wanted to kiss someone so badly. Caught between the thought and the act, he was immobilized. His muscles were primed, itching to spring into action, while his mind quadruple guessed itself. And then Pam cleared her throat.

"Good night, Jim."

"Night."

It was instinct. Duck and cover. Suppress. Disengage. He smiled without realizing it and turned on his heel again to head to the door. He was barely aware of the sound of her leaving the office behind him; not wanting to get stuck in the elevator with her, he bolted for the stairs. He barely made it out of the building before the elevator opened again, and was in his car ready to drive away when she pushed open the door and stood on the sidewalk under the lamp to wait.

Jim drove slowly, trying to process what had just happened. He didn't know where to start. He pulled out onto the street and began to drive away. "What was that?" he asked out loud to his own reflection in the rear mirror as he checked for cars behind him before he switched lanes.

A movement on the sidewalk a little ways back caught his attention. He slowed even more, pausing to turn his whole body in the seat so he could see. It was Pam, walking out of the parking lot, seeming to head towards the bus stop.

_She has a ride_, Jim thought. _Unless she's lying. But why would she do that?  
_

In a split second, Jim made up his mind. He turned the corner and drove as fast as was safe for the wintry road conditions, circumnavigating the block in order to come out near the bus stop and give Pam the ride she hadn't asked for, which he hadn't offered. As he made his way back onto the street she was walking along, he saw the bus, red taillights glowing in the night. He saw Pam pick up her walking pace and disappear behind the bus itself as it slowed down to let her on. He sighed deeply, watching the bus lurch to a stop, rock slightly as she stepped up, and then saw her walking down the illuminated inside aisle to find a seat.

"Damnit," he cursed under his breath, flicking the turn signal and pulling out onto the street again in the same direction he was going in before. Pam headed off in one direction; Jim cruised in the other. _If only this were ninth grade English again_, Jim thought as he inched homeward._ I'd have the perfect example of 'metaphor' for Ms. Staedel and the rest of the class._


	5. It Started Off Well

On Thursday, Jim anonymously sent Pam a small bouquet of chocolate chip cookies from a bakery near his house. A half dozen large cookies, wrapped in pink cellophane, bearing the message "Happy Un-Valentine's Day", were delivered right on time, and Pam's excitement gave Jim goosebumps. He'd felt bad because Phyllis had received an obscene amount of gifts for Valentine's, and Pam had received nothing -- yes, Pam had said she didn't want anything, but even Roy couldn't have been _that_ obtuse. Yet he had been, and Jim thought Pam deserved better. Plus, with the events of the day before, she needed cheering up. Jim hid the fact that he was the sender well when the delivery boy came into the office with the package. Too well, in fact, because Pam called down to the warehouse to thank Roy. At lunch, when Roy came up to see her and try to help her clear up the mystery, he cast a sideways glance at Jim; it didn't take much to read into it. But, at the end of the day, with Pam still stumped about the giver of her late Valentine's Day gift, Jim casually walked up to the desk to get his coat and said in a low voice: "Surprise." She figured it out, and her face lit up; he told her he knew the baker, which was a lie, and that the idea seemed like a good one the night before, and oh, ha ha, gotcha good, didn't I? Pam smiled and split the last chewy cookie with him. It was the best tasting cookie of Jim's life.

On Friday, Pam asked Jim if she could get him anything from the coffee shop down the street on her lunch break. Roy was at a health and safety training seminar he was required to take if he wanted to be a certified forklift operator, which he wasn't. Jim smiled and shook his head, but Pam insisted, which was unlike her, so Jim relented. He didn't know how it happened, but he'd ended up driving, and once there, he ordered the tallest latte with extra foam and a vanilla flavour shot, which Pam paid for. And then, instead of going back to the office, they sat at a round table by the window and drank their coffees and talked about the Olympics and which events they liked to watch best – Pam liked figure skating and Jim liked hockey, but jokingly admitted that the tight suits of the bobsled participants had attracted him to that particular sport since he saw the Jamaican team in Calgary in 1988 on the television. He loved to make Pam laugh. He also loved hearing her say "This is so much more like a first date, isn't it?" as she pushed open the door to the outside.

The weekend was too long, and only served to remove Jim from where he truly wanted to be, which was sitting in a desk six feet away from the woman he loved, and who might actually feel something for him, fiancé be damned. He actually wondered if he might have the courage to say what needed to be said, and the surprising answer that returned at him – "_Yes_" – was uplifting. For the first time in his life, Jim went to bed on Sunday night not dreading Monday morning.

On Monday, Pam arrived at work late, with a latte - vanilla, extra foam - for Jim, and together they devised a prank to pull on Dwight involving the new photocopier that was arriving that afternoon. Dwight had asked to set it up the day before, and so Pam had taken the liberty of calling ahead to have the photocopier delivered to the warehouse instead of to the office itself. Over lunch, she and Jim went down to open the box and get it running, in order to change the default message in the display window using a code Jim had found on the internet. They brought it up, unpacked, saying that it had pretty much arrived intact and that Dwight should test it first because he was the Assistant to the Regional Manager, after all. When he turned the power on and was faced with the command "Insert Coin" flashing at him in the display window, a flummoxed Dwight took up the rest of the hour trying to find a coin slot. Jim wished he'd had a camera – to film Dwight going mental trying to establish a working relationship with the copier, and also to film Pam trying (and failing) to suppress her giggles at the reception desk. He loved it when she smiled. He would have told her so, but Roy arrived, signalling the end of the day.

On Tuesday, somehow, Jim managed to convince Dwight that Ryan was really working for the CIA and that he was trying to infiltrate a fiendish plot on the part of the North Koreans and al-Qaeda to lace paper with anthrax. Dwight was incredulous and disbelieving, but – and Pam attributed Jim's success to this fact – when Michael decided that it would be a great day to do his Asian restaurateur impersonation before the lunch break, which he also serendipitously chose to spend eating at a Korean food restaurant, Dwight seemed utterly convinced. He shadowed Michael's every move for the rest of the day, and Pam continued to shake her head in her own disbelief, wondering how Jim got so lucky. Roy didn't find the joke amusing, and spoiled it by saying so very loudly at the front desk soon after Pam told him what they were up to. Something about the "very real threat" of terrorism, and that maybe some people in the office should have their heads examined. This, coming from the guy who pasted Michael's face onto a blow-up doll in the warehouse, was almost too much for Jim to bear.

Wednesday arrived and brought with it a surprise gift of ice cream for the whole office, courtesy of Michael. Dwight let it slip that the only reason for it was that Michael's freezer had broken down the night before, so rather than let it melt, he'd brought in the five buckets to share with his co-workers. Reluctantly. It had apparently taken Dwight forty five minutes on the phone the night before to talk Michael out of eating it all himself, since sharing was the most _obvious_ waste of five gallons of ice cream. But Jim didn't complain or say anything; instead, he grabbed two cones and filled them both, one with strawberry and one with Neapolitan, and gave Pam the choice. She picked strawberry, and spilled some on her shirt, which she seemed to think was very funny until Roy complained that it would mean Pam would either have to buy stain remover or a new shirt, which meant less money for the wedding or the honeymoon, and she should really be more careful before she cost them the whole thing. Jim seethed, and wondered why Roy had been invited at all.

Thursday was a "blah" day for everyone, and was only made worse when a minor accident in the warehouse involving some kind of chemical spill forced the warehouse staff into the office for an hour after lunch until the fumes could dissipate. For Jim, sitting in a desk six feet away from the woman he loved, and who he was now fairly certain didn't return his feelings because she had a fiance _damnit_, had turned into a nightmare. Watching Roy fumbling around the desk, trying to "help" her with her daily tasks, was almost torture enough to make him glad when Dwight challenged him to a sales competition, upon which lunch for two at Cugino's for the winner was wagered. At least he had an excuse to ignore whatever was going on behind the reception desk, though he didn't ignore it, not one bit. He still won, handily defeating Dwight; but when the person with whom you'd most want to eat lunch at Cugino's wears a sparkling diamond on her left ring finger that _isn't_ from you, it kind of takes the fun out of it all.


	6. Happy Hour at Poor Richard's

**A/N: Sorry for the delay. On MTT, this chapter is titled "Scottish Winter Sports and Stout Ale Make Jim a Drunk Boy" but the title is too long to put here, so I changed it. It's exactly the same as on the other site, if you were wondering! :) Hope you enjoy it!!**

* * *

"I never thought I'd say this, but thank god for curling," Jim said, slurring his words as he raised a glass to the TV screen at Poor Richard's and heard a few people from the booth behind him cheer a little.

Mark laughed, "You hate curling."

"I know," Jim nodded, feeling his head loll forward a little too much, causing him to overcompensate in the other direction. He laughed. "I hate curling. But _this_ curling means the Olympics are on… and when the Olympics are on… no cameras… ."

"Oh right, I forgot about the Hiatus Happy thing" Mark asked, slinging an arm around his roommate's shoulder, "And you're drunk."

"I'm drunk," Jim told his beer glass, before lifting his eyes lazily to look at Mark, "You're drunk."

"I'm drinking Coke," Mark said.

"Rum and coke."

Mark slid his glass closer, "Have a sniff."

Jim waved his hand. "No… I trust you."

"I think you're cut off," Mark said, moving Jim's pint glass away from him. "It's water from now on."

"What is this? The final game?" Jim asked, glancing at the television.

Mark looked up at the screen, "Yeah, I think so."

"How do you pronounce that last name?" Jim was squinting.

"I don't know. It's Finnish, and you're smashed, so you can't pronounce it."

"I hope Canada wins," Jim said, looking back down at the table for his glass. "Hey, where's my beer?"

Mark sighed and lifted his hand, waving over their waitress so they could settle their tab. "We're going home."

"Hm," was all Jim managed to say. He glanced back up at the TV and stared for a while, "I don't like curling."

"You don't say… ."

Mark helped Jim into the passenger seat of Jim's car a few minutes later, a task made more difficult due to Jim's insistence that he wanted to put the keys in the ignition for Mark, which led to him leaning over in the car as he reached for the ignition. He slipped and banged his forehead on the gear shift, and only then did he turn around and sit in the chair properly. With frozen fingers, Mark buckled Jim in and raced around the car to start it and warm it up, before Jim tried to "help" him out anymore.

As they drove the quiet streets of Scranton heading home, Mark tried to liven up the conversation, which was comatose on account of Jim's inebriation. "Seriously, buddy, I'm glad you were able to take the afternoon off to pick me up from the airport, but I'm never taking you out during Happy Hour ever again."

"Happy Hiatus Hour," Jim said before laughing at his own joke for a moment. When Mark didn't laugh, Jim rethought his own hilarity, and his laugh died in mid-chortle.

"Anything new at work?" Mark asked.

"Nope," Jim rocked his head slowly against the headrest.

"What about…," Mark paused, "… Well, what about Pam?"

"What about her?" Jim opened his eyes and turned his head to try and focus on his friend. If he'd been sober, he would have disliked the tone that had crept into his voice.

Mark heard, understood, and slyly changed the subject. "Jim, what did your boss say to you the night of that stupid Wallenpaupack booze cruise?"

"I don't know."

"Didn't you tell me that he told you to never give up?"

Jim frowned, "I don't remember." It was an exercise in drunk lying, and Jim knew it. So did Mark, and he shook his head as he sighed.

"You remember, all right. Jim, I've been living with you for three years, and I haven't seen you get this drunk since… since the night of my brother's wedding, and that was… three years ago!"

Jim grinned, "I remember your brother's wedding… ."

"Yeah, me too," Mark replied with a groan.

"Those bridesmaids… ." Jim grinned.

"There was one bridesmaid, and you tried to make it with her because you were both staying at the same hotel."

"Nothing happened anyway," Jim said, closing his eyes again, smirking, "Though not for lack of trying."

"Jim… ."

He sniggered. "Whatever. I know I'm not so drunk that I don't know that you changed the subject on purpose, but what I don't know is what any of this has to do with Pam." He seemed to have confused himself as he stopped talking, a frown etched into his brow.

Mark sighed, "Come on, man. I know you. You're three and a half months away from the wedding date. You're drinking yourself into a stupor because you can't stand it."

"Stop psych… psycho… a-nal-y-siz-ing…," Jim let out a breath, unaware of his mispronunciation.

"Why don't you just tell her?" Mark prodded, emphasizing every word.

Jim sighed and leaned his head closer to the window, pressing his forehead against the ice cold pane. "I wanted to. This week. But I just… ."  
"Chickened out?"

Jim frowned again, "Hey, cut me some slack, okay?" he closed his eyes and took a breath. "No, I couldn't find the right time. Roy is always there, man. Always." He heaved a heavier sigh. "Besides, what could that possibly prove?"

"Nothing," Mark admitted, "But at least she'll know and you could stop moping." He shrugged, turning to face his friend and roommate. "Seriously, man, it's bringing me down too. And I can't afford another night like this anytime soon."

Another sigh, and Jim's breath fogged up the glass. It was just as well; the scenery whirring past outside was making him feel ill. He closed his eyes and waited for the car to stop.

Jim awoke to the sound of bells. Horrible, tinny bells. For a moment, he thought for sure he'd died and gone to hell, the kind of place where every day is June 10, and the bells he was hearing were from the church bell tower, proclaiming for everyone to hear that Pam and Roy were married.

But the ringing continued and didn't let up, and finally Jim snapped his eyes open. He found himself in his own darkened room, and the clock on his bedside table blinked in loud red numbers that it was 6:30. And he quickly realized that the awful sound he was hearing was not church bells but was actually his cell phone ringing. Flinging himself over the bed -- too quickly, for in his haste to stop the noise he'd forgotten why it was making his ears bleed in the first place -- he reached down to the floor to find his pants, and the pocket his phone was in. Flipping it open, he cleared his throat.

"Hello?" he croaked into the mouthpiece.

"Jim?"

"Yeah, who is this?"

"It's Pam. You _do_ sound awful."

"Thanks," he said, pushing himself up in bed.

"Sorry. Your roommate told me you weren't feeling too great."

"He did?"

"Yeah," she said. "He called me about half an hour ago saying that you weren't well and wondered how you were at work today."

"I'm fine, Pam," he said, "Just a little… ."

"Drunk?"

Jim screwed his face up. "I don't know… I've never been half way between drunk and hungover before, but that might be the best way to describe it."

"Happy Hour at Poor Richard's?" Pam asked.

"How did you know?" He didn't have to ask. He knew it was Roy's favourite spot, and they'd run into each other many times there before. He wondered how often she'd nursed a hungover Roy back to health. The thought bothered him, but his headache was too severe to give it any real attention.

"I just figured," she said with a laugh. The sound hurt his head, but he didn't pull the phone away. It was music to his pained ears, sweet torture. He smiled.

"Want me to come over?" she changed the subject.

Jim shook his head, "Aw, no Pam, it's a Friday night. You should be out celebrating… something."

She was grinning, "The end of the work week? Well who can I celebrate with? The one person I'd want to hit the town with is already drunk!"

Jim was slightly taken aback at her words, the fact that she would consider him the 'one person' with whom she'd want to celebrate, but was careful to check his enthusiasm before continuing; he'd read too much into things before, and look where _that_ got him? "What about Roy?"

A short pause. "Oh, he's off somewhere with the guys," Pam said, trying to sound like it was fine.

"I see."

Another pause. Rustling in the background; Jim thought he heard music and the sound of a police siren. Was he on speakerphone? Was she in the car? "So what if I bring over the popcorn and a couple of movies…?"

Jim leaned his head back against the pillow. Of all the nights to spend with this woman, she had to pick this one. He didn't want company while he ate and slept off his hangover, or whatever it was he was smack in the middle of experiencing. But he wanted to be with Pam. He heaved a sigh and did his best to dissuade her, "Pam, the place is a mess. I haven't cleaned since before Mark left… ."

She sounded a bit disappointed – the exact opposite reaction Jim wanted to elicit – but she kept trying. "It's fine. I'm sure it's nicer than my place; I haven't cleaned in a few days either."

"Well, I have no food."

"I'll pick up Chinese on the way over."

Jim smiled, wondering if this was more about her than him. He thought for sure he heard a car in the background over the crackling phone wires. He gripped his forehead with his open hand, trying to suppress his throbbing headache. It would be nice to have someone to talk to. And maybe, just maybe, the effects of the alcohol would make him loose lipped enough to… _God, now you sound like Mark. You won't say anything, Halpert, and you know it_.

"If you really don't want me there…," she trailed off, interrupting his thoughts.

"Throw in a bottle of aspirin and you've got a deal."

He swore he could hear her smile. "Okay. See you in a jif."

"Bye."

Jim wanted to kill Mark initially for telling Pam in the first place. But as he found his legs and set about cleaning himself and the house up as much as he could, he thought that perhaps tonight wouldn't be such a bad night after all.


End file.
